


Smiles for Patches

by vicesvirtuesmh



Category: Would I Lie To You? RPF
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Divorce, Gen, Internal Monologue, POV First Person, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25263502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicesvirtuesmh/pseuds/vicesvirtuesmh
Summary: Keith Barrat, the naïve, yet genuine character Rob created in his college years. A divorced father of two little smashers and no longer a husband, when his wife ran away with a colleague. It all got worse when he couldn’t see his children anymore. His world was crumbling. It all got worse when Rob saw the scripts he wrote slowly falling into place, in his own reality.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case, Keith Barrat is a character Rob Brydon created and played in the dark comedy show named "Marion and Geoff". The summary tells what kind of person he is.

(Do read the summary first, to clear things up a bit :)

“Lets keep it light,” Lee says. The audience erupts in laughter. I add my own strike by sinking back to my chair and stretch a defeated smile. He has pulled this joke numerous times, but with his timing, it settles well. In all honesty, I’ve lost count, so it comes across as fresh as it was the first time. In that case, I’ve encountered this line twice. This is one. The other goes back to early 00s, in the set of Marion and Geoff.

I say set, I mean car. It was simpler times. A camera was attached to the dashboard and I’d deliver my monologues. I boast about it to David. In Peep Show, the camera was attached to his head. It was a passive nagging. Mine wasn’t. I had to drive and act. That might be the only time both sides of my brains worked simultaneously. The creative side and logical side took their respective roles, Keith Barrat. If that’s how brains work.

-

“Ready?”

“Absolutely,” I reply, nodding along.

“Quite the heavy one today.”

“Sorry, are you talking about the script or-“

I tilt my head to a friend of mine, who just drove me to the set.

“-because the associate producer and CEO of our film production company is joining us today?

“Creative director,” Steve corrects, walking to my side, “Hugo’s right. It’s not easy work, this.”

“Is that why you’ve joined me today?” 

I turn to him and look over his shoulder, where the director is walking away. My view shifts to the left and slightly higher, to meet his eyes.

Steve shrugs, “No. I just felt like coming around.” 

“And finally working properly,” I quickly add, “If I still catch you around after filming, maybe I can drag you to dinner?”

"Yeah," Steve says, with a hint of Partridge's nasal tone, "That's not gonna happen."

There it is.

-

Today’s a bit different. I’m not driving down the streets. Properly, Keith isn’t. The car is parked and the driver seat is lowered. We’re in a car park, under yellow lights, with loud airing and drainage pipes. The car engine is off, so there is no exposure of light and heat is rising inside.

First scene. I’m resting on my back. My head’s on the passenger seat and my feet are resting on the driver’s window.

“I’m alright,” I call, twice.

A bloke walks pass, giving two knocks.

“I’m fine. I’m over the peak.”

Second scene, I lay on the bent driving seat. A bouquet is on my lap as I fiddle with its flowers. Hopefully, the background noise drains the crinkling of plastic leaves.

Third scene, I’m sitting upright. My palm’s rubbing my cheek, a sign of failure in comforting myself. A masquerade on melancholy can crumble sometimes, but as long as a smile bandages its entrance, it’ll cover up just fine. I slip that in once in a while. Though, the trembling fingers are as genuine as they are spontaneous. 

Fourth scene, time to use the props. I reach below for a plastic bag. My dialogue surfaces in mind.

“I didn’t get the chance to give the boys their presents,” I say, keeping my tone light. I rummage inside and retrieve two plushies. 

“Nevermind.”

I lift those plushies to keep them in frame. My index fingers rest behind their necks and bob their heads up and down. My words blur for a while as I stare at these toys. It’s getting heavier to keep points of my lips up in a grin.

“Why’re you sad, Eeyore?”

I look to the other,

“I just am.”

“Don’t be sad.”

There’s a faint familiarity in everything and everywhere. As if my hands were already automated to cradle these two. Though in the matter of dialogue, it is slightly different. I don’t speak as kind to myself.

“Too late.”

I take a deep, sharp breath. Composing myself. 

“Come on, big hug.”

Composing myself for a big fall. I gather the two plushies’ arms around each other into a close, tremor-struck hold. A few seconds later, I find myself joining them as I bury my nose and shut my eyes. We rest in our loneliness. Let the toys muffle my voice, “Who’s daddy’s boys?”

My fingers curl and squeeze the poor dolls. 

I’d never let anyone else talk about limitations in acting, particularly mine. But, even now, I’m falling short. Assessing emotional scenes without emotions is necessary, but it isn’t sufficient. I do remember all the discourse I had with Steve about this character, to guide me in his behavior. Nevertheless, I give myself to Keith, into who he is, accepting there will be residue in my mind after today ends. Footprints down my nerves I can’t wash off. 

A closeness I have with this fiction will soon end. The only way I could differ myself and Keith in the loop is the bruised, silver ring around his finger, where mine remains longing.

“You’re my boys,” I whimper, together with Keith.

I stay still for a while, before the director shouts end to this trance.


	2. Chapter 2

With that out of the way, I slowly get out of the car. The director seems satisfied, as he fusses with other crews instead of me. I stand near the car, still hazed from previous intensity. Suddenly, someone shoves a hat on me, which pushes my head forward. I turn to the doer, ready to snap at them, just to meet a sniggering Steve.

I take the cap off my head. It has mickey mouse ears on its sides and a familiar logo on its front.

“I brought the props today, you know,” he says, “My daughter’s.” 

I nod and turn my eyes away. My arms unconsciously make its way to fold in front of my chest.

“That was great,” Steve adds, “I’d thank whoever broke your heart for that melancholy surge.”

It takes a few silent seconds for the words to sink in.

“Do you think I need to refer to my personal life, for professional needs?”

A frown forms on his face, “What? No, Rob, I’m not trying to-“

“Maybe if you really did take up the role, you’ll do it as easy as an on and off tap. Keep in mind, the role I created.”

“I didn’t want to take up your role, people upstairs did!” 

By the time he finishes, I’m staring widened. The split second moment of our fixed glances is a brief callback about his presence, and mine.

“And I said no," Steve murmurs.

His body stiffens. He places his hand in his trouser pocket and the other is gripped around a coffee tumbler. He takes a sip and leans his back against the car. To my side, he offers his drink.

“I think caffeine will just make this . . spree, worse.”

“It’s not coffee,” Steve says nonchalantly, “It’s brandy.”

Off guard, a low chuckle slips out of my lips. At the corner of my eye, I can see a brisk of smile on his lips as I reach for his hand. My tongue greets mellow sweetness as it nuzzles down my throat, filling my chest with warmth. As any other mending, it’ll soon leave my body colder than before. Though we still have one more scene left to do. By the time I finish and alcohol accomplishes, dinner will already be waiting. Wherever we’ll have it.

At the moment, both of us stand in companionable silence. Though it doesn’t go long as Steve starts chattering. With his habitual stutter, it’s already a bit difficult to understand him. An exhausted mind doesn’t contribute much. I can take in separate words and lastly, his long sigh.

“All I’m saying is,” Steve says, tilting his head down, nibbling his bottom lip, 

“Keep it light. Don’t think too much about it.”

I just nod and mutter a conventional reply. I know he meant the script. The filming. The work pressure.

But this time, his savored timing has gone amiss. How could his words land? Not when I keep seeing Keith Barrat as an uncanny impression of my life. Not when I’m wearing my wedding ring as a fictional character, and slip them off in reality. I created him back in college, yet it has turned prophetic. If I’d known that, I would’ve done better. I swear I would.

**Author's Note:**

> britcom tumblr : vicesvirtuesmh


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